


Fire in the Blood

by vix_spes



Series: Fire in the Blood [2]
Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Three Musketeers (2011), Young Blades (2001)
Genre: #Youngboots, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bring Back The Porn Challenge, Desk Sex, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 16:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11971221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: In public, the King's Musketeers make the Comte de Rochefort's life hell, four of them in particular. In private, one of those four Musketeers makes life somewhat more pleasurable.





	Fire in the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Because I adore the chance to write the rare pairs, here's some YoungBoots! Written for the bbtp_challenge which is a delight every September 1st! Inspired to an extent by a beautiful piece of art by the incredible theseavoices which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11380671)

On any other occasion, the number of people – servants, courtiers and his own men included – that had dived out of his way as he stormed through the palace might have amused the Comte de Rochefort. A man who prided himself on his formidable and intimidating figure anyway, no-one wanted to get in his way when a temper was upon him, as it was currently. It wasn’t bad enough that his guards had been bested by the Musketeers, yet again, but it had been four against forty (again) which was just humiliating for the Red Guard. Then, to make it worse, he had been summoned to Cardinal Richelieu’s rooms and reamed out for the failings of his men. It was mortifying being spoken to like that and he hated the Musketeers for their part in it.

Entering his rooms, he slammed the door shut behind him so hard that the door frame shook and a vase fell to the floor, smashing into smithereens. He snatched the hat from his head with a growl, flinging it to one side as he stalked towards the room that he used as an office of sorts and where he kept the alcohol, sending his cloak slithering to the floor as he did so. His fingers paused in the process of divesting himself of his jacket and he came to a sharp halt in the doorway upon the realisation that his office was already occupied.

Rochefort raked his eyes over the figure waiting for him, the blood singing in his veins for a completely different reason now.

Charles d’Artagnan.

The boy from Gascony who resembled an altar-boy just waiting to be debauched. The rookie with a piss-poor excuse for a horse, some of the best sword skills that Rochefort had ever seen and a temper that ran white-hot. The newest member of the Musketeers who had also been Rochefort’s personal bed-warmer for the last six months.

Not two hours ago, this impudent pup had bested eight of Rochefort’s best men single-handed, including Jussac. Now, he sat sprawled in Rochefort’s chair, looking as innocent as a Botticelli angel although Rochefort knew better. He knew what those lips looked like wrapped around his cock, how those ridiculously long eyelashes fanned across flushed cheeks when they drifted shut as d’Artagnan rode Rochefort’s cock better than the most reputed harlots in Paris.

Casting one more appreciative glance over the picture that the boy painted in his leather breeches and crisp white shirt that hid most of his frame from sight, Rochefort crossed the room and poured himself a goblet of wine, draining it before pouring himself a second.

“I had to endure almost an hour of the Cardinal shouting after a run-in between my men and the Musketeers.”

“A pity. Maybe you need better men.”

Rochefort rounded the desk in an instant, fisting his hand in that riot of curls and yanked d’Artagnan’s head back, revealing that oh so tempting neck that he took such fun in marking.

“Maybe you should watch your mouth.” Rochefort watched as said mouth twisted with an insouciant grin.

“I thought you liked my mouth, monsieur le Comte?”

Rochefort tugged harder, forcing d’Artagnan’s back to arch beautifully, ignoring the hiss of pain that escaped the boy, knowing that d’Artagnan actually liked a little pain alongside his pleasure; something that Rochefort was always happy to indulge him in. Leaning in, he bestowed a biting kiss on said mouth.

“I like it better when it’s being used in a manner that I deem appropriate.”

“And what might that be?”

“Why don’t you let me show you?” Rochefort once more used his grip on d’Artagnan’s hair to force him to his knees, while Rochefort fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches.

He had barely pushed them down, the fabric barely clinging to his hips, before d’Artagnan was there, using all of the weapons in his arsenal to coax Rochefort’s rapidly hardening cock to full erectness. Goal achieved, he wasted no time in swallowing Rochefort’s cock down his throat, swallowing around it. In the beginning, he had choked with less than half of Rochefort’s length in his mouth but he had soon learned. Now, d’Artagnan worked the flesh in his mouth like a professional, hollowing his cheeks and sucking as though his life depended on it and moaning like a seasoned whore as he did so. Rochefort’s lips quirked slightly at the salacious noises emerging from d’Artagnan, echoing loudly in the room.

“Not so cocky now, are you boy? Although you seem happy enough.”

D’Artagnan’s attempt at a reply was garbled around Rochefort’s length and Rochefort smirked, tracing his thumb over d’Artagnan’s lips where they were stretched around Rochefort’s girth. Without another word, he pulled back, watching impassively as d’Artagnan coughed and spluttered, trying to catch his breath.

“As tempting as it is to spend myself down your throat, I have the inclination to make you work for it today. Strip, boy.”

He watched as d’Artagnan stripped with an economy of movement, practised movements as he removed his boots and breeches, making no attempt at a show. A sharp movement from Rochefort had d’Artagnan’s hands stilling as they went to the hem of his shirt. Rochefort took the seat that d’Artagnan had originally occupied, legs outstretched and spread obscenely, cock jutting sharply up between his breeches and his jerkin. Holding d’Artagnan’s gaze with his own, Rochefort reached into a desk drawer and removed the oil that was for ostensibly cleaning his sword but which received greater use for other reasons, coating his shaft with a thin layer of the liquid. With that done, he made an imperious gesture for d’Artagnan to come.

D’Artagnan moved with alacrity, his white shirt riding up to reveal porcelain coloured thighs as he straddled Rochefort’s legs, Rochefort admiring the contrast between pale skin and the rich claret colour of his clothes. Rochefort ran an appreciative hand along them before his hand slipped around to palm the plush arse that had given him so much pleasure. Digging his fingers in, he helped d’Artagnan raised himself to his knees, head dropping back slightly as d’Artagnan’s fingers wrapped around his shaft, guiding it into himself.

It didn’t matter how many times they had done this, whatever strict control that Rochefort had over himself, he could never help the moan that escaped him as his cock was encased in that tight heat. D’Artagnan was still as tight as he had been when Rochefort had taken his virginity over this very desk, the only difference now was that he was a more than willing participant in his own debauchery, his previous reticence a million miles away.

Rochefort had to do very little. D’Artagnan moved with a fluid grace, impaling himself over and over on Rochefort’s cock, body undulating as d’Artagnan tried to find that sweet spot inside himself. Instead, Rochefort watched the display before him, letting his hands roam, pinching a peaked nipple for the choked gasp that it brought him, leaving a trail of bruising bites along the column of d’Artagnan’s neck. Only when d’Artagnan started to tire, slowing his pace, did Rochefort truly move. Gripping d’Artagnan’s hips and arse so tightly that he would undoubtedly leave visible bruises, Rochefort started to snap his hips up to meet every downward motion of d’Artagnan’s. It didn’t take long before d’Artagnan started whining and he tried to take himself in hand, only for said hand to be slapped away by Rochefort. As always, d’Artagnan would come on his cock or not at all.

It didn’t take d’Artagnan long after that. It never did. He sped up, despite his exhaustion, fucking himself frantically on Rochefort’s cock until he came with a noise that was almost feral. Ecstasy was sparking through Rochefort’s veins, like fire in his blood, as he continued thrusting through d’Artagnan’s orgasm until d’Artagnan was a limp, over-sensitised mess. Only then did Rochefort allow himself to succumb, slamming so deep into d’Artagnan that Rochefort’s hips raised from the seat of the chair as he came with a primal roar.

When the haze of orgasm lifted, d’Artagnan had roused slightly.

“Do you still hate all the Musketeers, Comte?” D’Artagnan was panting, his previously pristine white shirt stained with a mixture of his own sweat and semen.

Rochefort surged up with a growl, gripping d’Artagnan by the thighs and making the couple of strides to his desk, spreading d’Artagnan across it like a feast, one that he intended to sample again and again. Rochefort was already softening inside d’Artagnan but he gave one more thrust into his hypersensitive entrance, revelling in the loud gasp that ensued.

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you would prefer to comment on DW, you can do so [here](http://vix-spes.dreamwidth.org/282121.html)


End file.
